Tales from a Demonic Mind
by Rai Dean Con
Summary: "A twisted, gorier version of the classic Goosebumps stories, only more mind-bottling and suspenseful..." is just one of the quotes that could describe these passages. Gorey. Dark. Evil. Yet entirely engrossing! Rated T-M for violence and gore. REVIEW ME!
1. Chapter 1

_**ATTENTION:**_

The following passage may or may not make sense to any of the previous or future posts on this "story". This "story" is merely a mix of exerts from the demented mind of a slightly demonic author. These paragraphs may be compared to, "a twisted, gorier version of the classic _Goosebumps_ stories, only more mind-bottling and suspenseful," as quoted by my own mother. Most end in blood, death, or a cliff-hanger. I'm not promising that you will ever be saved from these cliff-hangers, either. So be prepared for a suspenseful climax, and then shear end, with nothing more than a cold brick wall to slam into. Kind of like jumping off a building, and expecting pavement and death, and only receiving falling for eternity. So, enough rambling. Enjoy, and please leave a review of my story or message me! =)

Blood. EVERYWHERE. Not just his blood either. His blood, her own, and those of all others she'd brutally murdered. This, is what stained her hands. Her pale, innocent looking hands. The hands of someone barely more than a mere child. Nineteen. Ha! And to think she had thought, at one time long ago in her childhood, that being nineteen would make her an adult. Oh! How she craved those years. Those happy years, when princesses and dragons existed, appearing right off the pages of her favorite, childish, storybooks. Back to the time when she could play with a dollhouse for hours by herself. Back when nothing more than a shiny object should catch her attention, she would up, and chase it, where ever it may lead. In a much happier time for herself, and those around her. When her mother shouldn't have to worry about her coming home much past curfew on school nights, or wonder why her 13 year old daughter should want to take an artillery guns-man class. Or she should have to explain to the principal why in all of the world she brought a pocket knife to school, more or less why she had attacked a teacher with it. But no, the times of fairies, knights in shining armor, and glass slippers were gone. By now, she had created a new story in the pages of a book untitled. One written, in blood...

And so, she stood. Staring at the crimson puddle surrounding her and his corpse that lie at her feet. He, had been an easy target. A simple kill. Or so it seemed. In truth, this murder had been one of the hardest she'd ever faced. Not in all of her 7 years of mass-murders, bombings, and attacks on innocent people, had she EVER felt this much remorse. Blood mixed with tears as both collided while streaming down her cheeks, creating watery-crimson droplets, like bloody rain, falling to the floor. Her jerking sobs became louder as she stared down at the pistol in her hands. The gunshot still echoed in her ears. The one to finally end his life. And as he died, instantly as the bullet pierced his skull, it felt as though a large part of her died with him. Perhaps a part she could not live without.

Sinking to the floor with a gruesome '_splash' _as the puddle of blood erupted in a series of waves, she hugged her knees to her chest, and stained them with the same watery-crimson droplets as before. She ferociously gripped the handle of the pistol, now feeling a thousand times heavier than before. She dared a glance at the body, lying perhaps a few centimeters away. The sight of his corpse made her queasy. She had killed hundreds, maybe more, innocent people before. Taken childrens' lives without a second thought. But now, this one job. This one murder, made her nauseous. The smell of his blood, tangy and putrid, hit her stomach like a sack of bricks. Turning to her side just in time, she vomited violently.

Shaking after getting sick, and now with the smell of puke and fresh blood spilling throughout the small, cramped room, she could hardly take it. Now with nothing on her stomach, she chanced another glimpse of his fleshy corpse. She swallowed hard, and tried to think of him as he once was. A good man. Strong. Bold. He spoke his mind, whether his opinion be right or wrong. He stood up for what he believed in, and wasn't afraid to take pride in the smallest aspects of life. He was daring. And could probably persuade the queen of England into giving up her throne if he tried. He was a magnificent lawyer, and a great husband to his wife. A lively politician, easily making a monopoly of a debate without breaking a sweat. She tried to remember him smiling. As if he knew he was about to win a case. Or perhaps the look he gave his wife when he came home after a good day at work. She tried to remember these things, but all she could see was a dead body, killed by her own hands.

Sobbing, she put the gun, containing one, final bullet, to her own head. She'd planned this all along, and now she was ready. She took one final look at the corpse in the pool of blood on the marble floor. And she eased on the trigger, with her father's dead body, as her last sight...


	2. Chapter 2

_**ATTENTION:**_

The following passage may or may not make sense to any of the previous or future posts on this "story". This "story" is merely a mix of exerts from the demented mind of a slightly demonic author. These paragraphs may be compared to, "a twisted, gorier version of the classic Goosebumps stories, only more mind-bottling and suspenseful," as quoted by my own mother. Most end in blood, death, or a cliff-hanger. I'm not promising that you will ever be saved from these cliff-hangers, either. So be prepared for a suspenseful climax, and then shear end, with nothing more than a cold brick wall to slam into. Kind of like jumping off a building, and expecting pavement and death, and only receiving falling for eternity. So, enough rambling. Enjoy, and please leave a review of my story or message me! =)

_And so the chase begins. _She thought as she smirked smugly at the police officer who was probably positive he had her cornered. She was standing at what looked like a dead end alley. On either side, dirty, brick apartment buildings arched through the sky, reaching up to caress the mid-day sun. Clothes lines cluttered with wet laundry were strung from window to window across the narrow alleyway. A police car, the one the officer had been driving, was parked diagonally across the cobblestone road where it had screeched to a halt, sending a beautiful collaboration of sparks and charcoal-ed asphalt raining down like streamers at a parade. The officer was kneeling down behind the open driver-side door of his car, his head and hands peaking through the window. She needn't look at him twice, and know him to be a rookie.

And so she stood there, knowing he was too terrified to actually shoot at her. A smile crossed her lips as his shaking hands cocked the pistol. He took aim at her forehead, blank and center, like he'd been taught. She had been taught how to do this once as well. Long, long ago.

Suddenly, a memory began playing through her head. A flashback. She was standing in her cabin at summer camp. It was really boot camp, but the leaders thought if they slapped the word 'summer' on the title, they wouldn't be sued for putting kids ages 9-18 in danger of serious harm everyday for a month and a half straight in the hot, July, California sun. Heatstroke was the least of anyone's worries, though, here at Camp Mackenzie. You were more likely to be attacked by a narwhal in the middle of Kansas then to _not _be shot, stabbed, or seriously threatened in your first _week _of camp.

But here she stood, the only child in her cabin to not be hurt or threatened in any way, and the month and a half was almost up. Perhaps it was the fact that she was younger than most kids here, being only 10, and yet, she was far more skilled. She thought back to her first day at camp. When they had been each allowed to pick out a 'weapon' to use in a war strategy game. Most of the 'weapons' were paintball guns, and smoke grenades. But she, the barely 10-year-old, had went into the weapons arsenal, and found a pistol, with _real _bullets. She knew very well that this was a real gun when she picked it up, _and _when she shot it, and killed the drill Sargent.

After that day, no one wanted to talk to her. No one wanted to stand next to her in assembly line. Or eat near her at lunch. No one messed with her either. And the more she thought about it, the more she saw this as one of the shaping factors to her crude personality these days.

But the flashback continued.

And then, she stood on the dock. With him. This memory pained her like steel in her esophagus. She remembered this moment very clearly, for it was the only time she had ever regretted being trained to kill...

She was 17. Standing on the dock with possibly one of the hottest guys she had ever encountered. And he _liked _her! He actually _liked_ her! Not only did she have a friend, she had a lover! For once in her life, she felt like she had a purpose aside from killing! He leaned in to kiss her. His sandy-blond hair tickled her as he pressed his warm lips, wet and soothing like ice cream on a hot day, yet warm like oozing honey, against hers.

It was an odd time to make such a comparison as this, but in the moment where she stood now in front of this cop, it was the same type of day, warm but breezy, and almost the same time as her memory.

His lips met hers, and ignited her skin with electricity as his thick, tan, muscle toned arms wrapped around her waist. _Now. _She thought, though she wanted more than anything for this tinkling little voice in her head, well more in her gut, she observed, to vanish and leave her with a single happy moment in all of her crude, contorted, demented life. But no. It would not go away. _It _has _to be now. _The voice screeched at her. She could feel it in her gut. The instinct to hunt, to strike, to kill. The instinct, alone, she had been taught to follow, despite what her mind may tell her. For this instinct, which was bred into few, and taught to even fewer, was a great weapon to posses, and _never _failed. It _never _missed a beat. It _never _told you wrong. It _never, __**ever **_failed.

And so, she struck him with the 4 inch blade she had hidden easily in her sweatshirt sleeve. It was a chilly, August day, and no one even thought twice when she wore the sweater. She might have even been looked at weird if she _hadn't _worn long sleeves. And so she struck him, her blade easily puncturing his heart, the way she had been taught. In between the ribs. If she had been merely a centimeter off, she would have only struck a bone, and perhaps cracked it. But she didn't miss. She hit her target point blank. His body collapsed in her arms and she tossed him in the water, watching his heavy corpse sink to the bottom of the lake. _It never fails. _She thought, and then walked away weeping silently.

Now, standing here on a day much like that one 4 years ago, she nearly cried. She had never felt remorse for her actions. Not ever. But thinking of him on that chilly August afternoon. By the lake. The lake of Camp Mackenzie. She wanted to give up. The camp had started this. She had been shipped off to a boot camp because the foster homes would not take her. The camp director, one of her last victims, and more then likely the reason this officer was after her now, had taken her under his wing. She had been allowed to stay all year long.

_8 years of my life I spent in that putrid wasteland! If only I had escaped earlier! _She thought as she stared down the barrel of the officer's pistol.

Anger balled insider her. The same anger she had been fueled ravenously on for 12 years now. The gasoline to keep her fire a-blaze. The feeling in her gut screamed at her, '_Do it! Kill him now!' _She stepped forward, and, in one, swift motion, retrieved the dagger from her coat sleeve. Positioned for the heart, just below the collar bone, with the blade pointed downward in order to pierce the organ directly, she launched the dagger through the air.

The blade pierced his heart and in a last effort, he shot at her. The bullet barely grazed against her cheek. He wailed and fell to the ground bleeding profusely. _It never fails. _She smiled and walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

_**ATTENTION:**_

The following passage may or may not make sense to any of the previous or future posts on this "story". This "story" is merely a mix of exerts from the demented mind of a slightly demonic author. These paragraphs may be compared to, "a twisted, gorier version of the classic Goosebumps stories, only more mind-bottling and suspenseful," as quoted by my own mother. Most end in blood, death, or a cliff-hanger. I'm not promising that you will ever be saved from these cliff-hangers, either. So be prepared for a suspenseful climax, and then shear end, with nothing more than a cold brick wall to slam into. Kind of like jumping off a building, and expecting pavement and death, and only receiving falling for eternity. So, enough rambling. Enjoy, and please leave a review of my story or message me! =)

Who? Who could she turn to now?

She stared down at the corpse that lie limp in her arms. Once a person, a _friend _to her, was now nothing more than a rotting heap of flesh and organs lying dumb in her tight grip. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks, like rivers streaming through a series of lolling foot hills. They seared ravenously on her fleshy cheek bones as they wound their way through the crevices and cracks in her skin. Her eyes blurred as more of the smoldering tears came. They seemed to dissolve into her flesh, only trapping the intense heat they carried, beneath her skin, making her flush and fever-like. Her skin, in the areas that had contained this acid-like burning sensation, were scarlet, and hot to the touch.

Hugging the body to her chest, she let the searing tears fall, like hot wax droplets. Sobs choked her throat, leaving her gasping for raspy breaths, and her chest heaving hard with every throbbing _thump _of her heart. On her knees, in the pool of dripping blood that had come from his corpse, she sobbed like a child. Her grieving heart ached for the times when he was still alive, and she had a reason to live as well.

A memory played heart-breakingly slow through her head. As other memories joined it, forming a contorted collaboration of thoughts, like a complicated soup, she cried harder. The pains were of this memory;

She was smiling. They were standing on her front porch. The porch swing lazily rocked back and forth in the autumn breeze. The view from the porch was like none other in the country. It had a gorgeous view of their farm, beyond that, the valley and forest, and then, millennium away it seemed, the mountains. The porch faced the west, and every day, the sun set directly over the humble peaks, declaring it's goodnight to the country.

The view was indescribable. There was just no way to correctly pronounce, to the depth it required, how incredible the peaks of the mountains looked when the last bit of erie sunlight cast long shadows over the land. Or how gorgeous the streaming river looked, reflecting the golden sunset in it's shimmering waters. How the bit of light that peaked around the mountains cast a gorgeous glow around the rocky exterior, making everything look supernatural and holy. How the sky danced with hues of colors unseen anywhere but on the base of an artist's canvas.

Or how it felt to witness it all, the beauty, the glow, the warmth of the last sliver of lingering sunlight, and to know that you will feel this every day for the rest of your life, if you were to just stand here.

But eventually, the sun does set. And this particular sunset, was the last one he would ever see, and perhaps, the most beautiful.

Where she sat now, kneeling in the pool of crimson that leaked slowly from his body, she remembered this sunset, and wondered why. Why did it have to be so soon? Why did he have to leave her here, instead of take her? Why did he not say goodbye if he knew this would happen?

But one question lingered above all in her head, proud to proclaim itself as dictator of her mind's focus.

Why...

had she killed him?


	4. Chapter 4

_**ATTENTION:**_

**The following passage may or may not make sense to any of the previous or future posts on this "story". This "story" is merely a mix of exerts from the demented mind of a slightly demonic author. These paragraphs may be compared to, "a twisted, gorier version of the classic Goosebumps stories, only more mind-bottling and suspenseful," as quoted by my own mother. Most end in blood, death, or a cliff-hanger. I'm not promising that you will ever be saved from these cliff-hangers, either. So be prepared for a suspenseful climax, and then shear end, with nothing more than a cold brick wall to slam into. Kind of like jumping off a building, and expecting pavement and death, and only receiving falling for eternity. So, enough rambling. Enjoy, and please leave a review of my story or message me! =)**

_**NOTE: **_

**Also, you may find my present and future stories to be a tad shorter then the previous ones. I will try to keep them just as lengthy as before by adding more detail (what I do best) but these are from a little while ago and I was writing them in my notebook. I only had enough room for one page per story back then, (in the sad days before my beloved OpenOffice!) As I said I will try to keep them the same length as before, but please do not get mad/and or fret if they are shorter than usual. But as always, tell me if you liked them or not, and great news, I now have a Facebook! I will post the link later on for you to find me and add me. I love all who are reading this! =) _Write with Passion- enjoy- Rai._**

The wind vigorously whipped past her like that of which could easily stir it's brew, and produce a tornado. It effortlessly flung wisps of her warm, mocha colored hair into her line of vision, and tickled her cheeks leaving the urging sensation for her to pull at them, to relieve herself of the pitiful annoyance. The pressure of the wind pounded down quite harshly, and heavily, on her nearly numbed, chilly face, like the pleasurable kisses, and the touch of a lover she craved dearly, and now longed for.

She could still imagine, so fondly to the point that she could almost taste, his last, memorable kiss on the cracked, dry skin that enclosed her lips, daring to try and let anything penetrate it. Nearly all of their warm kisses had been passionate, and, oh, how she loved them that way, but she recalled this one quite fondly and yet, with much effort, as thinking of him at all brought tears to her soft, hazel eyes...

He kissed slowly, with much patience, as he did so in such a manner to bring her the most pleasure physically possible, up the side of her neck, sending eerie, yet passionate chills down her protruding spine. It felt incredibly, insanely, indescribably good to have his moist, warm, luscious lips pressed firmly against her frigid skin, and to know, with great confidence, that these kisses were for her, and solemnly her alone. Her screeching voice was shaky, and dry, but still confident and diligent enough to warn him that she was in dire need of a cool drink. With a reluctant, heaving sigh, he quickly fetched a cool bottle of wine from the cellar, which led from the kitchen, and poured her a shimmering glass. She sipped it timid- yet thankfully- and the rich red drink slipped down her throat with incredible ease. Then he began lightly kissing her again, but this time in different areas, such as on the cheek, nose, and then finally the mouth.

She gripped the back of his head, her fingers grazing along his dirty-blonde hair that desperately needed trimmed, and pulled him ever closer. His thick lips were indulgently sweet, like ever so delicious chocolate, and ravenously addictive, like plump, wild berries. She never wanted to let him slip from this moment...

She confronted herself here. She had to stop. It wasn't healthy to keep reliving the past, hoping one day, you would be able to return to it. She turned the memory off, like a flash light that had once illuminated the gorgeous Mona Lisa. It hurt to turn away, and pretend it all never happened. She wouldn't do that... Not yet... Perhaps not ever, but for now, she had to atleast direct her focus onto another object. Besides, the next memory was too hard... too painful to recall.

Bubbling hot tears streamed down her face, like gushing rivers, until they dripped lightly onto her black petticoat. She gazed down onto the ground, 50 feet below, where his dreaded funeral was taking place. Maybe one day, she would gather herself, with her feelings of remorse, anguish, and sorrow included, and come farther than this cliff...

But that day, was not one coming soon...


End file.
